


i'm jealous of the wind that ripples through your clothes

by actualbluesargent



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, F/M, Introspection, Post 5x06, i thought this would get out all my feelings but i'm as sad as ever
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-07
Updated: 2018-06-07
Packaged: 2019-05-19 12:44:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14873976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/actualbluesargent/pseuds/actualbluesargent
Summary: Post 5x06, some introspection on Clarke's part re: Bellamy, and their relationship with each other now.





	i'm jealous of the wind that ripples through your clothes

**Author's Note:**

> I don't really know what this is? I just wanted to write some rambling on Bellarke/Becho developments (or not, whatever). s/o to @diyozah on tumblr whose post inspired this. it ruined me.

There is a word, Clarke knows, for how she feels when she looks at Bellamy and Echo. She recognises it, this distant imitation of a plummeting gut from years past, a different boy and a different girl. It’s - not quite longing, not the kind she knows. 

Longing, she remembers, in context of Finn, of Lexa - and Bellamy, especially Bellamy. An ache, a compulsion to reach out and chase raindrops that ran down his face, dripping from his hair to his temple to his jaw. A reasonless envy of the water that ran over cheekbones and freckles she herself lacked the courage to touch, however gingerly. That longing she remembers, because it still burns, now, low, still, despite everything that spins around them, despite her fear for Madi, fear of Octavia, worry for her mom, for Raven… Still, when she looks at Bellamy, hair wet from the rain, she sees a ghost of him, younger, angrier, face drenched in the rain, and that familiar pang grips her, causes her to falter. 

She closes her eyes that night, and her mind should be spinning with worry for Madi and herself, like nearly every night for the last six years, and it  _ is _ , on a basic level but -

There’s a part of her mind that keeps replaying Echo’s hands on Bellamy’s shoulders, and it’s not so much the act, but as what it represents. Numerous,  _ countless _ nights in space where she lay at Bellamy’s side, while Clarke looked up at the stars, hoping he was alive. And it’s not - she’s glad, that he had someone in space. Well, six someones, when it came down to it. And she doesn’t regret being left behind - she meant it, when she said it to Madi. Because now, with this little girl in her life, she could never imagine a life where she was in space with the others, with the knowledge she has now, of this brilliant, scared, brave girl. 

But she radioed him every day for six years and maybe some childish part of her, the same part of her that never stopped hoping he would come back, started thinking that maybe when he did, he would be her person again.

The heart and the head. That’s what they had said to each other. That’s what they had been, when she grasps for something to sum up what Bellamy was to her. She remembers what must have been dozens of glances, cast over shoulders, furrowed brows and confident nods. A team, dealing with problems the best way they could. Together. They weren’t perfect, but looking back - and she has had a lot of time, in the last six years, to look back - her best choices were made when she was with Bellamy. Her heart. He was it, he  _ had it. _ Even though neither of that really knew that, until she found her heart ripped out and sent into space, for his own safety.

And then he came back, like everything out of her dreams, and saved her. He was there, voice as low and gruff as she remembered, bold and fierce, lit up like an angel by the Rover, bartering for her life. And then he was soft and tired, in her arms and she was in his. He was  _ home _ , and if she could go back to the fierce, burning joy she felt, held in his arms, she would in a heartbeat, screw everything else. In Bellamy’s arms, her face pressed against his shoulder, knowing Madi was okay, knowing everyone was alive -  for a brief moment she had let herself believe that Bellamy was back and somehow everything would be okay again. And without her consent, that same part of her flared up, hoping that now he was back, she would have her person again. And it felt like it, for a little, dealing with Octavia, planning for handling the Eligius ship - Bellamy and Clarke, two ports in a storm. She should have known, of course, that it was too good to be true, and it hurts now, that she has him back, but he’s not  _ hers. _

The fact that she has to separate the Bellamy she knew with the Bellamy she has now is difficult. Because the softness in his eyes when he came for her -  _ you saved us all _ \- that’s all the old Bellamy,  _ together  _ and  _ if you want forgiveness, I’ll give it to you _ and  _ I got you for that _ . And maybe her Bellamy isn’t totally gone, but he has new priorities, a new companion, no longer the heart and the head in the way they were, once. 

It’s easy to see, once the divisions come cracking to the surface. Once it’s no longer the two of them, somehow the only two seeing sense amongst all this ‘Blodreina’ shit. Once she has Madi to worry about, and Bellamy has Echo, she sees their paths diverge, like roads in a yellow wood, heading different directions, both of them less travelled by. Seeing Bellamy’s anguished concern for Echo triggers a kind of sorrow and guilt all at once. Bellamy upset is something she never wants, nevermind anything else, but that same plummeting feeling remains strong, seeing him sad about losing someone else. Which is  _ ridiculous _ , because she has no time for longing for Bellamy, not when the peacefulness she dared hope for has been lost, but still, she can’t help the tears that threaten to prickle at the corners of her eyes. 

She loves him. She knows that now, in a way perhaps she didn’t six years ago. Madi probably knew it, she thinks, from all the stories. No one paints someone they don’t love to be a hero in stories, no one talks about someone they don’t love more than anyone else. She recognises that love now, and nearly laughs at the irony -  _ love is weakness _ . She knows she loves him from the way she feels calm when she looks at him, from the feeling that stirs in her gut when he speaks. She loves him with a ferocity unmatched.

Which sucks, because only the people you love can break your heart.

**Author's Note:**

> come cry with me on tumblr @neiljostensmh


End file.
